


No Way to Live

by ACB1



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 09:36:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3405806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ACB1/pseuds/ACB1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He bought her an apartment. How was she supposed to deal with that?</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Way to Live

An apartment. He bought her an apartment. He bought it. He didn’t just rent her one; no, he bought it. 

The audacity. The arrogance. His presumptiveness was astonishing. 

She wanted to break something. If she weren’t so tired and defeated, she would break something, like a vase, an expensive, weighty vase that would shatter into a million tiny pieces, spraying glass everywhere. A vase was breaking in the background when she talked to Red about the Kenyon case. How fitting, a perfect foreshadowing of her desires. 

She wanted him to stop, to stop trying with her. She meant that when she said it. Maybe if he stopped and believed her when she said they would only ever be about the work, she could relax. But, she knew from the anguished look on his face that he wouldn’t. But, she didn’t know why not. She had given him an out, told him it was all out in the open now; he could stop pretending. She knew why he was with her, and, even knowing that, she was still working with him, solving cases, putting herself in danger for the common good, doing her job. Why couldn’t that be enough? 

She was not telling him about what she found. The fulcrum, if that, in fact, is what she found, was hers. She would not confide in him. She did not trust him. He had used her, and he planned to continue to use and manipulate her, now by indebting her to him with an apartment. She couldn’t be bought. She wasn’t some sort of kept woman and he a sugar daddy. The whole thing was unbelievable. Who did he think they were to each other? 

She had left the Post Office quickly after exiting her office. She had felt shaky after talking with him. She had had enough for one day. The Kenyon case had been a tough one – so many dead people, innocent children used and David shot right before her, just as she was making progress with him. It all seemed so useless, such a waste. 

She had driven straight to her motel. Red’s words were lingering, clinging to the edges of her mind, as she drove. The motel was crushing her spirit, smothering her soul, or so he believed. He wanted her to be happy, to see possibilities. Well, wouldn’t that be nice. But, he was right; she had been a lot of things lately – angry, depressed, confused, disgusted, ashamed, sad, lonely, anxious – but, no, happy didn’t make the list. It was nowhere near the list. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt happy. She questioned whether she ever would again. 

Liz knew two things that would at least make her feel better. She wanted a hot bath to wash off the day and wine to drain her sorrows. A warm, relaxed body and a fuzzy mind sounded very good about now. She walked up the rusty iron stairs to her second floor motel room. She opened the door to the musty smelling room. At least housekeeping had come to pick up her takeout containers, straighten her toiletries and make her bed. That was at least one advantage of her current living conditions. 

She immediately poured herself a glass of Merlot from an open bottle she had. She drank a sip from the plastic hotel cup before setting it on the small dining table. She stripped off her clothes as she made her way to the bathroom. She turned on the water, mainly the hot water faucet, before exiting the room to grab her wine. She took another sip from her cup as she walked back into the bathroom. 

She felt a hearty crunch under her left foot as she took another step forward. She couldn’t help the disgusted sound that left her throat when she lifted her foot to find a large crushed cockroach stuck to it. She began hopping into the bathroom to remove it from her foot with the use of toilet paper – she was not going to touch the foul insect with her hand for anything in the world. As she continued to hop, her face focused on the roach, she spilled her wine down her naked chest. She had forgotten she was holding the cup, her mind on removing the roach. “Dammit,” she yelled. 

She dropped the now empty cup on the floor and reached the toilet paper roll as wine ran down her cleavage, her stomach, and lower. Unraveling more than she would need of the toilet paper, she got rid of the offending insect from her foot and flushed it down the toilet. She put her foot in the sink, not wanting the guts of the bug in her bath water. She washed her foot with soap and water. 

Ready for her bath sans wine, she put her foot in the tub. The water was ice cold. “No! Come on! I just want a hot bath, you son of a bitch,” she yelled to the empty room. She hated this place, this spirit-crushing, soul-smothering hellhole. What was she doing with her life that she was living in a roach-riddled motel that stank of mold? “Damn you, Reddington!” she yelled again. She was pissed at him. More than anything, she was pissed at him. He made her face herself and her choices, time and time again. He made her question and doubt herself. 

She threw her clothes back on, grabbed her purse and headed out the door. She knew exactly where she was going, but she wasn’t sure yet why she was going there. 

Red answered the door himself when she arrived at his current safe house, in the thick of things in Georgetown. He couldn’t suppress his surprise and pleasure at seeing her on his doorstep. 

“Lizzie,” he said, happily. “Would you like to come in?”

He seemed so normal, so himself, and it made her feel warm inside and safe. And, those were feelings she did not want to have around him, because of him. 

She said “yes,” to his invitation despite herself. 

The townhouse was well appointed and clean and smelled of wood and leather and fire. He had the fireplace going and the lights were dim as she made her way into the living room. He was clearly unwinding from the day. His suit jacket was nowhere in sight, his vest was unbuttoned and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He had a nearly empty drink on the coffee table. She took in the scene, and her first emotion was jealousy. He lived so well, so comfortably. He had offered her the same opportunity, but there was so much more to it than comfort if she accepted. 

He gestured for her to have a seat on the sofa. She did sit, without a word. He sat on the opposite end of the sofa. His gaze was curious, but he seemed unhurried in asking her why she was there. Eventually his scrutiny made her want to squirm. 

“Why did you get me the apartment?” she asked, quietly. 

“I told you why, Lizzie,” he said, narrowing his eyes at her, unsure what else she wanted or needed him to say about it. 

She just stared beyond him, her conflicting thoughts and emotions playing out on her open face. He stared, trying to read her and understand. 

“You want me to be happy, to see possibilities,” she repeated his earlier words.

“Yes,” he nodded, watching her intently. “You deserve that.” He waited a beat for her to respond. When she didn’t, he continued, “More than anything I want you to be happy, Lizzie. It may take some time, but you will find happiness again. You will begin to see possibilities where now you see dead ends. It will come. But, you need to allow it, Lizzie.”

She turned her eyes to him. He sounded so sincere, and looked so intent. She didn’t understand his interest or his continued feigned concern. She was compelled to ask, to confess.

“I don’t know why you continue with this. Why you continue to pretend to care for me. It is unsettling. I can’t be lied to anymore, Red. I have been lied to enough. Don’t you of all people know that? Can’t you at least be honest with me from now on? Stop pretending. It just makes everything worse,” she said. She seemed so sad, so defeated. 

It was all he could do not to reach out to her, to graze his fingertips over her arm and cup her shoulder in comfort. But, she didn’t want him to touch her, and he would respect that. But, he needed to give her something. She needed to feel, to understand, even a small amount of what he felt for her, to understand this thing they were a part of together.

“Lizzie, I have never lied to you. Sometimes, many times, I have kept things from you, but I have made it a point to never lie to you. I would never lie to you about how I feel about you. I would never pretend to care. I care. If I did not care, Lizzie, you would know it. So, know this, I care for you. I have for a long time. I know that is hard for you to accept and to understand, but it is the truth,” he said, his eyes holding hers, his gaze serious and intense. 

When he finally allowed his eyes to leave hers, they inadvertently trailed down her neck to the neckline of her shirt. They held there, and he squinted, baffled. 

“What are you doing?” she asked, annoyed. 

“Pardon me, Lizzie, but your chest appears purple,” he said, not taking his eyes away.

“What?” She looked down. Oh, the wine. She hadn’t even washed it off. “I had … an accident.”

He lifted his eyes then, “What kind of accident?”

He was agitated now and anxious. She needed to calm him down. “It was stupid. Really, I, uhm, I was getting ready for a bath and then I stepped on a cockroach and spilled my wine all over myself. It’s fine.”

His face contorted into a mask of disgust, very reminiscent of his expression when he was sneezed on at the DMV. “For heaven’s sake, Lizzie, get out of that godforsaken motel. Take the apartment. Do this for yourself. I insist,” he said emphatically.

“You don’t get to insist. I don’t have to listen to you,” she said, and even as she said it, she knew how it sounded. Like a child. 

His eyes widened, and he blinked several times, almost as if cleansing himself of her nonsense. “Well, then. Why don’t you listen to yourself? You stepped on a cockroach and have wine stains all over your chest. Did you even bathe? Did the stains not come off? Are you not provided adequate soap in that miserable excuse of a motel?” He was back to staring at her chest, simultaneously disgusted and flabbergasted by the whole scenario she described. 

Her ire and defenses were up. “No, I did not bathe,” she practically spit at him.

“Well, why not?” he asked, unable to comprehend her behavior.

She stood up and walked closer to the fire, unable to face him anymore. She said very quietly, “Because there was no hot water.”

“Excuse me,” he said, standing up and walking toward her. “Did you just say there was no hot water?”

“That is what I said, yes,” she said more loudly, still looking at the fire, instead of his incredulous face.

“Well, my case continues to improve, Lizzie,” he said, turning toward the coffee table to pick up his drink. 

She turned just in time to see him drain the glass. She licked her lips. His eyebrows raised at the appearance of her tongue. She sighed. He didn’t miss anything, ever. He saw everything, knew everything, anticipated everything. She hated that about him, and she needed that from him more than she could ever accept. 

“Would you like a drink?” he asked, his voice had lowered. The question sounded intimate. She shivered. If he cared about her, why did he? And, how? Like a father cares for a child? Like a mentor for a protégé? Like a co-worker for a peer? Like a man for a woman? It could be any or none of those. She didn’t know, was afraid to know. 

“I wanted a drink and a hot bath,” she admitted, resigned to telling him outright rather than having him continue to pull information painfully and embarrassingly from her. “I couldn’t seem to manage either.” 

“Let’s go, Lizzie,” he said, already moving toward the door. He scooped up keys from a bowl in the foyer and opened the front door. He looked back at her, still standing in the same spot by the fireplace. 

He raised his eyebrows at her and beckoned her forward with a sweep of his hand. She finally walked to the door. As she stepped over the threshold, she turned and asked, “Where are we going?”

He didn’t answer, just walked to the black sedan at the curb and got in the driver’s seat. Now, way too curious, she followed, getting in the passenger side. “You drive? I’ve never seen you drive. Where’s Dembe?” She asked. 

“What is with everyone? I know how to drive. I have been driving since I was 12 years old. My grandfather taught me in a day. I was a natural. I can drive anything – a tractor, a boat, an 18-wheeler. Now, strap in,” he said in a flourish.

She did as told. And, he did, indeed, prove to be a more than adequate driver. She rested her tired head on the soft leather headrest and looked out the window. Talking to him took too much effort. She felt spent and dirty, sticky actually, thanks to the wine. She assumed he was taking her back to her hotel or to another. She would find out soon enough. 

She closed her eyes. He smelled nice. He radiated warmth. She battled against the pull of him, the comfort she felt when she was near him. The fact that she felt at peace while alone with him told her that she did indeed trust him, despite what she kept telling herself.

She lost herself in her thoughts, and before she knew it, the car had stopped. She opened her eyes. “Red! Why are we here?” 

They were at the Audrey, her new apartment. She should have known. He would never give up. “For a hot bath and a drink,” he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

He left the car quickly, no doubt to eliminate her ability to protest more. She slammed the door and followed him in. He entered the elevator without looking for her and pressed the button for the top floor. She walked in and stood far away from him. Both faced forward and did not speak. When they arrived at the top floor, he exited first, leading the way. 

He pulled out his key to the apartment and turned the lock. She stood close behind him and made her way into the foyer by the time he turned on the first light. 

She gasped. It was beautiful. It was exactly what she would have chosen for herself. It was warm and cozy. Spacious, but not too big. It was just right. It was fully furnished with plush sofas and leather chairs, warm throw blankets and colorful paintings on the walls. The kitchen was modern and clean. She couldn’t help but walk around. It had two bedrooms. The guest bedroom looked so inviting, and the master bedroom had a high queen-sized bed, elegant furniture and a large bathroom with a sunken bathtub. All of it was too much. It was to her taste, lovely and welcoming. It felt like a home. A home she would want. 

She came out of the bedroom and didn’t see him anywhere. That’s when she finally took notice of the windows and the view beyond. It was dark outside, so she couldn’t see very much, but she believed him when he said it would give her possibilities again. This whole place made her feel full and excited; it made her heartbeat faster. It made her want to laugh, and nothing had made her laugh in a long time. She felt like a little girl at Christmas. 

“What do you think?” He asked, standing directly behind her, close but not touching her. She jumped, startled by his presence and his proximity. 

“It’s perfect,” she said, not thinking about how she should feel or what she should convey to him. She just told him the truth. 

She could see his reflection in the window. He was smiling, a real smile. 

Despite her better judgment, she turned around, and he was so close, so very close. But, she didn’t back away. She looked in his eyes and smiled back at him. 

“Why don’t you go take that hot bath? I have opened some wine. There is a glass ready for you on the counter in the kitchen. Enjoy yourself, Lizzie. Relax. Spend some time here, and see how you feel about it. It is yours no matter what you decide. This place belongs to you. The key is on the counter,” his voice was warm and kind, low and melodic, calming and reassuring. She held herself back, wanting to reach out and touch him.

She nodded at his suggestions, and he turned away, walking toward the door. She felt panic rise in her chest. “Red, are you leaving?”

He turned back to her with a question in his eyes. “I am. Why? Is something wrong?”

“Well, no, but, you don’t have to leave. I won’t be long in the bath if you want to stay for a while. Which reminds me, I don’t have any clothes here, and my car – it’s at your house,” she said, her mind whirling.

He smiled gently at her nervous energy. “There are clothes for you here. Just look in the closet and drawers of the master bedroom. Your car will be delivered to you tomorrow. Don’t worry, Lizzie. Just relax.”

“Okay. Thank you, Red. I don’t know what else to say,” she said, shaking her head. 

“The way you were living was no way to live. Give this a try. It’s time. There is no need to say anything else. Live in the possible,” he answered, again heading for the door. 

She followed him, reluctant to let him go. When he reached the door, she reached out hesitantly. She touched her arm. “Red?”

He turned slowly, nervously. She put her arms around him and hugged him tightly. “Thank you, and I am sorry for being cold toward you, for not trusting you. I will work on believing that you care for me. I do want that to be true, Red. I really do.”

He pulled back and looked closely at her: “Lizzie, believe it. It is the truest thing about me. Now, go wash that wine off of yourself. And, in the morning, look out the window. Enjoy your view.”


End file.
